Coloring Outside The Lines

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Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Adam visited this morning, checking on the work. He stood there in his purple silk tie, glad-handing the cleaning crew and lecturing them about safety. He knows damned well the “accidents” are nothing of the sort. Ruthless shit.

Emily doesn’t like him. I think he scares her. She conveyed her displeasure by blowing dust all over his three hundred dollar shoes. He told me to have the windows fixed and left in a storm of indignation.

Tim Spelling, lead guitar for Broken Mind, stands in the day room watching the cleaning crew. His hair is a riot of short white and purple spikes. He idly fingers a small silver charm hanging from his belt. It’s a bible. He turns brown, almond shaped eyes to me.

“In Japan, we could never do this. Bad karma or feng shui, some shit like that. Thank you.”

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

The irony is killing me. Had to hire group of 20-somethings to clean the day room and stage. Insult to injury, they consider themselves a paranormal investigative team on the side. Adam will kill me if he finds out I traded daytime only investigations for a break on the bill.

Yesterday, a small pot of grease got knocked off the stage, and a ladder “mysteriously” got shoved off the wall it was leaning against. Cliff, the groups “tech guy” was near the ladder. Idiot child was beside himself with excitement. Lucky it was only Emily. She’s harmless.

Eric Romanov. Lead singer of Broken Mind. Kid looks like a goddamned gypsy Viking. He’s young, beautiful, and utterly sanguine about their cd and the concert. He bounces around my office in the small gatehouse, thanking me.

He’s brought copies of the cd, simply titled Iron. The first single is Quiet Scandal. He kisses my cheek and bounds out the door. Seconds later the tiny rubber duck on my desk begins to move in small circles.

Emily is the only one who can get as far as the gatehouse. She was seven when they killed her.

“Adam, you can’t let those idiots play a concert here just because they named themselves Broken Mind. The townies don’t call it that for nothing. There have been more than thirty cases in the last decade of people disappearing, committing violent crimes, or going bugfuck insane after breaking into this place."

“Shake it off, Meela. You’re the care taker. Get it ready.”

I started to reply, but he’d hung up.

I looked at the stage, imagining the five young men playing there, as soft whispers began echoing through deserted hallways and rooms.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

And I’m just sitting
here with my brain revving in blank little circles. Just fighting anxiety nausea and despair and
fear of the maybes. There are so many. Last night I tried to be hopeful, tried to
sleep hopefully, thinking that I might wake up without this horrible thing that
happens to me every day. This thing that
makes me want to hide in fear, further sabotaging myself. Goddess help me, please.

I watch people come
and go in on chat, and no one reaches out to me most of the time. It scares me.
I’m alone. I wish I could revel
in the isolation. I wish I could become
bitterly motivated by it. I’ve done that before. I can’t find that now. I’m so tired. My body aches. It’s depression. I fucking hate myself for having to admit it,
again. Always again. Always. And is this doing me any good.
Finally writing out what’s happening.
Forcing myself brutally, to write it, wanting to scream with every word,
knowing no one would hear me anyway, because I’ve been screaming for months. For a while I tried to make myself heard. Tried so hard. The people I reached out to, the ones I was
supposed to reach out to, wouldn’t hear me.
Wouldn’t listen.

Now finally it’s
almost over, but I’m terrified I can’t even force myself to keep paddling until
I get to the end, until this last thing either works or doesn’t. I’m terrified of losing today’s battle not to
give up, this moment’s battle, this second’s battle. I don’t want to die, but I wish I was
dead. Is that a conundrum? Does the fact that I’m wondering whether or
not it is mean I’m OK, or not?

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Sorry, No More Curtain Calls.

November 6, 2013

I put the fan back in the window this morning. It’s 60 degrees outside, and beautifully
sunny. There’s a soft scent of winter in
the warm air nonetheless. It reminds me
that the dark and quiet is approaching and I hope to rest soon.

I’ve spent too much time looking for the provenance of my
existence, trying to figure out why I’m a monster. It doesn’t matter. I think I have the answer now-the way of
fixing it.